Afterlife
by meganechan720
Summary: It's oddly comforting to know what happens after death. Vegeta struggles with being the single parent of a teenage daughter.
1. Never Stops Hurting

_Never Stops Hurting_

It took weeks to convince them he wasn't going to fall apart.

For fuck's sake, he was not some fragile antique ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. He had weathered far worse storms than this, and his daughter was the one having the worst time of it. Not having ever died, or watched anyone close to her die, Bra could find no comfort, as he could, in the knowledge that his wife was safe and well, and probably raising hell up in heaven trying to keep herself busy. Yes, he missed her, and damned if it didn't feel like he had a hole in his chest sometimes (and he knew what he was talking about there), but he was not going to revert to his planet purging ways just because the woman was not there to babysit him.

On the day of the funeral he watched everyone's eyes flick to him first, despite the fact that Bra was sobbing uncontrollably next to him, and became increasingly annoyed. He could see it in their eyes, that subtle judgment, trying to discern how far down the path of madness he already was. He could no longer deny that their lack of faith in his sanity bothered him on a personal level, but the bulk of his anger was on Bra's behalf: his lovely, strong, innocent daughter who was still three years away from the earthling age of majority and who would need the comfort and strength of everyone who was currently shooting him sidelong looks. Only the bucket of bolts seemed capable of looking at him without pity or fear, and he appreciated the fact that her eyes landed on Bra first.

The only other adult female in their lives that he could imagine asking to help care for his daughter was Videl, and she was absorbed in her own recent grief at her father's death, three weeks prior. Videl, with her own daughter close to Bra's age, and her own experiences with losing a parent, was the perfect one to help her through this, but even Vegeta could tell that it was too soon for both families to seek solace in each other's grief.

He watched, dry eyed, as his wife's pyre burned, and wondered if the five stages of grief applied to him.

* * *

Chi-Chi took care of the after party, though it was the most solemn party Vegeta had ever attended. He left Bra with Eighteen and Marron and joined Krillin at the large window overlooking the city. Of all the woman's friends, Krillin was the one that annoyed him the least. He let Vegeta stand in silence for a good while, and then said simply,

"We all miss her too."

The glass in Vegeta's hand merely cracked, and he considered that a victory. Krillin didn't comment, and he considered that a kindness.

After everyone else had gone home, Chi-Chi approached him brusquely, shoving a capsule in his hands without so much as a by-your-leave.

"This is two weeks' worth of meals. I know you have those robots, but there's nothing like a home-cooked meal, and I won't let Bulma's family starve just because they're grieving. I'll have a talk with Videl about having Bra over sometime, and of course Trunks is welcome anytime." She gave him a piercing look. "So are you, you know," she added.

Vegeta was startled. He looked down at the capsule in his hand, which surely had to contain an insane amount of food. He'd never understood how the woman in front of him had been able to cook for three Saiyans, but to cook for three more... And her last words. Chi-Chi had mellowed somewhat over the years, but mellow on her was still fearsome. He had never gotten the impression that she liked him, though she had always been grateful for his presence in Goten's life during her husband's absence. But her invitation just now had been motivated by compassion, not obligation, and he was amazed. He folded his fingers around the capsule and gave her a nod. She gave him one in return, along with a pleased smile, and then she squeezed his bicep.

"It will get easier," she promised. He snorted, and the moment was broken. She collected Goku and left, and he carried his sleeping daughter up to her room. He spent his night on the roof, staring at the star Vegetasei had once orbited. It did get easier, he knew. But that didn't mean it ever stopped hurting.


	2. Broken Shards of Glass

_Broken Shards of Glass_

Two weeks later (after Chi-Chi's food had run out and at Vegeta's insistence) Trunks went back to his own apartment.

Doubtless it would be a comfort to have him around, but after a certain point they would just be putting off the inevitable. Bulma never had moved out of the main compound, but Trunks was both less enamored of the idea of living with his parents than his mother had been, and had far more to prove in taking over Capsule Corp. She had inherited her father's easy genius and improved on it, and had a good brain for business to boot, but the only thing that came naturally to Trunks was fighting, and despite his successful first year and a half so far, the death of the former president (who was rumored to still have a major hand in the day to day runnings of the company) had turned the pitiless spotlight of the entire business world squarely on Trunks. It was for the sake of both his children that Vegeta sent his son back to his own life.

The first morning of their new life was quiet, the only sound the clink of silverware and the occasional soft murmur from the housebots inquiring after their preferences.

"I'm sending you to school today." Vegeta's carrying voice cut through the silence as though he had shouted.

Bra frowned.

She didn't look well enough to go to school, truth be told, but Vegeta had never sheltered his children (not even his precious princess) from pain, and he was certainly not going to start now. The circles under her eyes would not go away if she spent another day (or week or month) brooding at home, and surely it was only his imagination that her hair was more limp than usual.

"I don't want to," she said, her voice low and monotone. He had never heard her sound so defeated.

"That is not a good reason not to," he said, taking another bite of toast. He secretly hoped she would give him one; he realized now that she was not ready to face the crowds yet, the curious faces of the people who had all watched the public memorial service on television. He had misjudged, asking her to put more weight on a broken limb than it could bear. He would not shield his children from pain, but that did not mean he had to send them through the hell his childhood had been. Normally he relied on Bulma to soften his parenting, but, as he had been reminded ten million times a day since her death, Bulma wasn't here anymore. He would have to soften himself.

"I won't be able to pay attention anyway," Bra grumbled, pushing her scrambled eggs around her plate.

"Mn," Vegeta said, allowing for this. "You need to go back soon."

"Mmn," she said, taking a bite. He counted her bites, and found that she was still not eating enough.

"Take more sausage," he ordered, and she ignored him. "Bra—"

"I don't want sausage."

"You need to eat more."

"I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I, but you don't see me starving myself, do you?"

She looked at him, a strange expression on her face, and he realized that was the first admission of grief he had given since... since. What a silly thing to use to show his emotions; but then, what had more meaning to a Saiyan than food?

She took some sausage.

* * *

Two months, and he was not having a good morning.

"There's no way in hell I'm letting you wear that to school."

Bra glared at him and he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. She looked like a hooker dressed in that tiny red dress, but what disturbed him more was where the tiny red dress had come from.

"It was mom's," his daughter protested thickly. He found her curled up in his bed sometimes in the late afternoon, and more than once he'd simply gone to sleep beside her in the evening, not having the heart to banish her to her own bed. He was going to have to put a stop to that, he knew, but it was more urgent now that her fixation on her mother seemed to be getting worse, not better.

"I know that. I'm still not letting you wear it."

She looked betrayed, and he felt something squeeze in his chest. He stood his ground.

"I don't want to wear any of my clothes."

"Then buy new ones."

"I don't want to."

A bad sign. He'd have to call up Eighteen or her daughter and have them drag her out of the house to the mall; or, perhaps, drag her there himself. …No. Not himself. Marron; she was closer to Bra's age and would be less likely to trigger memories of shopping with her mother.

"I'm not changing my mind."

"Then I'll stay home from school."

"You've only gone two days this week."

"I don't need to go to school."

An old argument, one they'd already gone through with Trunks and were still going through with Bra. It was far more difficult without Bulma, since he'd never seen a need for it either.

"You need a high school diploma in order to go to college."

"I can get into college without one. Trunks did."

"Trunks had his equivalency certificate."

"Then I'll just get that."

"You are too young to go to college now. You need to finish high school."

"High school is stupid. I don't fit in there. I never have, even before—"

He watched her fight down the tears, and waited until she was mostly back under control.

"We will discuss getting your equivalency _if_ you go to school in something less revealing."

"Whatever," she huffed, flouncing back upstairs. She didn't come back down, and Vegeta didn't have the energy to drag her out of her room. Besides, she was probably in his room anyway.

* * *

Vegeta's hand hovered over the phone. He knew how to work the contraption, but he rarely did so. His hesitation was made worse by his indecision over who he wanted to call. Bra was not improving, and he did not know what to do. His first thought had been to call Chi-Chi, but the possibility of having to hear Kakarot's idiotic voice was too much. That much cheerfulness in a mood like this could be deadly. Calling Videl held a similar problem: he had no desire to talk to Gohan, who would probably trip all over himself trying to be sympathetic. The problem with calling Kame House was a more complex one. Once they heard his voice, the pig, the pervert or the turtle would simply hand the phone over to Krillin or Eighteen, but then he would have to explain what he wanted, and the thought of doing that to either of them was intolerable.

Bra wandered into the room, wearing a negligee of Bulma's like a shirt under one of her mother's work coveralls. She stopped, looked around vaguely as though trying to remember what she was doing, and then wandered back out. Her hair hung, greasy and uncombed, loose down her back, and she was barefoot.

Vegeta gritted his teeth and dialed the number like he was stabbing the phone with his fingers.

* * *

"I don't need a therapist!"

It was… sad, Vegeta thought, and ironic, that this was the most emotion he'd seen her show in a long time.

"Bra—"

"No!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot like she was five years old again. "I'm not crazy! I don't need a shrink!"

"You are not grieving properly," he said patiently, and she threw up her hands and whirled away.

"Ugh! Like you know anything about _grieving_, dad. Mom told me what happened when Goku died; she said you laid around like a zombie for months."

Vegeta ground his teeth. It wasn't as though he'd never had his past thrown in his face by his children before, but he hated sounding like a hypocrite, not least because he often felt like one. He was a ruthless killer, that was his occupation and his nature; and though he had given that up for the sake of his family, there was no question as to which life suited him better. Currently he was parroting advice Krillin had given him based on his experiences with Eighteen early on in their relationship. The ex-monk had assured him that therapy would help, but Vegeta could not conceive of how.

"That is not the point," he said, trying to wrangle the conversation back under his control. "The point is, _you_ are taking this obsession with wearing your mother's clothes too far, and it needs to stop."

The look she gave him was pure betrayal, and her face scrunched up like she was going to cry, but instead she opened her mouth and said, in a low, tremulous, hateful voice,

"My mother is _dead_, dad. I just want to remember her, unlike you. I bet you don't even miss her. You—"

"_Enough_."

Vegeta felt the anger burn through his nerve endings, spark along his skin, and dissipate. Slowly the hackles on the back of his neck settled down, and his fists unclenched with a jerk. His white gloves were stained red around four half moons across each palm. He blinked, and his hair turned black again.

"I will let you choose the therapist," he said in a voice devoid of emotion. "But you are going."

He didn't wait for her to reply, he simply turned on his heel and left the room, boots crunching on the broken shards of glass that littered the floor.


	3. Understanding

_Understanding_

Eight months, and Bra was sixteen, the same age Trunks was when he'd gone to college. He eyed her outfit critically, and could find nothing wrong with it. Her natural beauty made her appealing no matter what she wore, but her Saiyan strength meant she would never be in danger from physical harm and her mother's personality meant she could fend off any unwanted attention. It was the welcome attention that worried Vegeta more.

"Do you have your class schedule?"

She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.

"Dad, I'm not going to kindergarten. You don't have to fuss."

"I am not fussing."

She continued getting ready, and he watched her.

"Don't let people flatter you into making friends with them," he said.

"Don't let boys flirt with me, got it."

He growled softly and bit savagely into his banana. She laughed, and the sound allowed the muscles in his shoulders to unbunch slightly.

"I'll be fine, daddy," she said, kissing him on the cheek on her way out the door. He breathed in her scent, so similar to her mother's, and dropped the half-eaten fruit on the counter.

It was time.

* * *

Vegeta stood in front of the Gravity Room, finger hovering over the button to open the door. His hand was shaking, and the tightness in his chest was nearly unbearable. He could smell her here, somehow; her scent should have dissipated long ago, but it was almost stronger here than it was in their room. Her shampoo, and that lotion she wore, and her perfume, and the sweet musk that was undeniably her, the scent that was strongest on the back of her neck and in the hollow of her throat. Her skin, so silky and smooth, and her lips, soft and firm, tasting faintly of strawberries—

Vegeta lowered his hand and clenched it into a fist. For the first time since his wife had died, he allowed himself to understand that she was not simply on a long business trip and that he would join her soon: she was dead. Dead as his father was dead, dead as Raditz and Nappa were dead, dead as he had been dead. Gone. Perished. Deceased.

Bulma Briefs was dead.

He swiped at the tickling sensation on his chin and realized that tears were streaming down his face. Swallowing down the tightening of his throat he leaned his forehead gently against the reinforced door of the Gravity Room and let them fall.

* * *

After that, things deteriorated.

The dam had been broken, and Vegeta could not stop obsessing over the fact that his wife was dead. The memory of his two trips to the afterlife was hazy, and they brought him no comfort. Even if Bulma was thriving in Otherworld somewhere, what did that matter? She was not here, now, when he and their daughter needed her. Bra was becoming a woman and he had no idea what to do. And even supposing they got through puberty unscathed, and he didn't do anything too terribly stupid for the rest of his own life, _what guarantee did he have that he would see her again?_

Somehow he'd been able to ignore his conviction, still strong after all this time and in the face of the belief of so many people, that he was destined for Hell when he died. He'd committed so many atrocities, killed so many people, and enjoyed it too. How could one act of redemption change his fate? It didn't matter what the dragon thought of him, he was not a good person, even now. He would die and be sent straight to Hell, and he would never see the woman again. The idea ate at him until he could barely keep it together in front of Bra and he was forced to turn for help in the one direction he had vowed never to turn.

* * *

"Hello?" said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Kakarot," he said, even though that was not who he was speaking to. He just felt too stupid from fatigue and grief to work his way through a conversation.

"Vegeta? Are you alright? Did you need Goku for something?" The harpy sounded surprised, and all he could do was grunt noncommittally.

"Is something wrong? Vegeta? Hello?"

"Just tell him to come over here," Vegeta croaked, and hung up. Kakarot appeared in his living room less than five minutes later.

"What's up, Vegeta?" he said, lowering his fingers from his forehead. Vegeta could see that his eyes held only puzzlement, which was good. If he'd seen pity there he didn't think he could have stopped himself from punching the man through the walls.

"Kakarot," he began, eyes bloodshot, and found that he had no idea how to word his request. Or even if what he wanted could be called a request. What he needed was reassurance, but he would die before he spoke of it in those terms. He paced, scowling.

"You—The woman—You were in heaven, yes?" He could barely form a coherent sentence, he was so strung out on lack of sleep. The nightmares had come back with a vengeance, and it was just easier not to sleep.

"Yeah," Kakarot said slowly, still not comprehending. Damn his idiocy. For once in his life Vegeta wished Kakarot were quicker on the uptake.

"The first time I died I didn't even get to the—to Yemma. I just stood in line the whole time. The second time he just gave me my body and sent me back to earth. But I know I was supposed to go to hell."

Kakarot tilted his head to the side, just like a damn monkey.

"Will I see her, you moron?" he demanded, a little crazily. He just wanted this to be over so he could go back to thinking of Bulma as being on a very boring business trip. "When I go to hell. And she is in heaven. Is there a way? I don't know Instant Transmission as you do."

Understanding lightened Kakarot's eyes, finally.

"You're not going to hell, Vegeta," he said, and Vegeta could not stop himself from grabbing the other Saiyan by the neck and squeezing.

"Answer the damn question," he said desperately, his voice raspy and deceptively calm. Kakarot pushed his hand away and looked at him solemnly.

"Yeah, you can get to heaven from hell, even without Instant Transmission," he said. "It's kind of a long way, but you can do it. But you won't have to."

Vegeta felt his shoulders relax for the first time in days—no, months.

"Thank you," he whispered, and he was so tired he hallucinated Kakarot carrying him to bed and tucking him in like a child.

"I miss her too," he dreamed him saying.

* * *

He accompanied Bra to her next therapist appointment. He suspected that the girl had described him thoroughly and accurately, because the tall, thin man wearing thick-rimmed glasses did not seem surprised or put off when Vegeta responded to his questions with grunts or stony silence. Vegeta was pleased to see Bra openly discussing her feelings, and it gave him some idea of how he might handle her better. Nothing that was said was more helpful or comforting than Kakarot's assurance, but he doubted the thirty-year-old had ever treated former mass-murderers before either. The grief of a sixteen-year-old girl over losing her mother seemed much more his forte, and the advice and acceptance he provided were a revelation to Vegeta, who had always dealt with his emotions by ignoring them.

He drove his daughter home in silence, but he put a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she smiled at him, understanding.


	4. They Went Home

_They Went Home_

Ten months, and Bra was wearing her own clothes again. She had thrown herself into the quest of getting Pan to wear more fashionable clothing, and the challenge was helping her attitude so much that Vegeta, for once, didn't mind taking her shopping. Besides, now that she had a shopping partner that wasn't him, he was free to sit on a bench outside the food court while the girls mall crawled.

Ten months after Bulma's death, and Vegeta finally had the courage to enter her workroom, only to find Bra already there. She looked up from the capsule case she had open on the table in front of her and gave him a wan smile.

"I don't know what this one is," she said, holding it out. He read the serial number, and shook his head, not recognizing it.

"It's T class," he said. "You should open it in the yard."

She smiled again, and took his hand as she headed out the door. Once they were outside she took a deep breath and threw it. Once the smoke cleared her brow wrinkled in confusion, but Vegeta's eyes widened in recognition.

"Do you know what it is?" she asked him, looking at him curiously. He didn't answer for a moment.

"It's a time machine," he said in a low rumble.

"Wow, really?" Bra skipped over to it, running her hands along one of the metal struts. "I didn't know mom built one. I mean… our mom. You know."

"She built one soon after the other Trunks left, but she gave it away. I did not know she built another one." Vegeta joined his daughter, and floated up to look inside the cockpit. It looked brand new and unused. Bra didn't answer, and he looked down at her. She was looking nervously at the ground.

"What?" he said, landing next to her. She fidgeted, and then curled her hands into fists and looked at him resolutely.

"Dad," she said. "I think we should—"

"No," he said immediately. "There is nothing we can do to save her. Besides, even if we could, it would not bring her back in our timeline."

"I—dad!" his daughter ran a hand through her hair, eyes tearing up, though she ignored them. "That's not what I was going to say."

"…oh."

They both took a moment to compose themselves, and then she continued, nervous again.

"I was going to say… we could go back and… maybe… rescue you from Frieza. As a kid, I mean. Maybe even save Vegetasei. You're so much more powerful than him now—you could take him out before you were even born! We could—"

"Bra." He was bewildered. Such an idea seemed so logical, and yet… he had no desire to revisit those days. He had left that part of his past behind him a long time ago. "Bra," he said again, pulling her in for a rare hug. "As… undesirable as my past is, it is what brought me to…this. My family. My home here. I do not regret that."

She hugged him back, and they stayed that way for a long time.

* * *

One year. One year since her passing. The reporters had long since learned to stay out of Vegeta's way, and so the small family was undisturbed as they lay flowers on her grave. Most of their friends had left before it got dark, but the three of them stayed until long after the sun went down, saying little, not looking at each other, Bra's head on Vegeta's shoulder and her arm around her brother's neck.

"Do you think they have labs in heaven?" Trunks mused at one point. There was a heavy moment, and then Vegeta said with morbid amusement,

"If they didn't a year ago, they do now."

They laughed harder than the joke deserved, but when the laughter died down they finally turned and went home.


End file.
